


(un)cool

by staellula



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Older Man/Younger Woman, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:08:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29575881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staellula/pseuds/staellula
Summary: in the summer of 1973, after covering the howling commandos’ concert for a night, you - a young and inexperienced music journalist - accidentally end up following the up and coming band from new york city across the country. between shows, parties, backstage nonsense, interviews and failed attempts at writing a cover story for rolling stone magazine, you end up developing a love/hate relationship with their brooding, but devilishly handsome, guitarist james “call me bucky” barnes. (based on "almost famous")this is a rewrite of an old story of mine called "tiny dancer", published here last year.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	(un)cool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> your night is ruined, until it isn't, all thanks to the howling commandos.

**RADIO CITY MUSIC HALL, NYC, AUGUST 1973**

Almost a decade before, when you were still in middle school, your sister ran away from home.

At least, that was the version your mother liked to tell. The reality was that she left to be a stewardess for PanAm. After years of putting up with an overbearing home, Anita decided she had enough, packed her bags and went to see the world. Obviously, you were heartbroken - but in the morning she left, light as a feather and free as a bird, she hugged you goodbye and shared a secret. Whispered low enough to escape your mother’s ever present eyes and ears: “Look under your bed, it will set you free.”

As soon as her boyfriend’s car left the driveway and you wiped away your last tears with shaking hands, you tried not to seem too excited when you zoomed through the front door and into your old room. Underneath the small twin bed, a cardboard box that would change your life forever.

Anita’s full record collection. A whole new world for you to explore, and your future laid out in front of you. You just didn’t know that yet.

Vividly, as if it were yesterday, you remembered the feeling of lying down on the carpeted bedroom floor and listening to an entire record for the first time, that beautiful feeling of letting the sound take over you and take you places you didn’t know exist before. You were constantly reminded of that sensation when you saw The Howlies live, on stage.

Magic was the word to describe what they did. Radio City became small under the greatness of their music, each one of the hundreds of faces in the crowd in a daze. If the room was on fire, no one would notice.

Standing at the side of the stage, you considered that it would be magical to you too, if you didn’t know what things were like when curtains closed.

**WEST HOLLYWOOD, JUNE 1973**

_“I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”_

_“I’m not making you do anything, I gave you an assignment, and you took it.” Tony’s calm voice made you want to kick him in the shin with your platform shoe - the truth was that you were more jittery than anything. "Now, go put on your big girl panties and get over it."_

_You made Tony park his car a block before the Whisky, like a kid asking their parents not to drop them right in front of the school, and now you were second guessing every decision that brought you there. Tonight would be the first time you’d be covering a concert for an article - not only that, but it’d be also the first time you’d be interviewing a band._

_It was a wonderful feeling, the joy of doing something for the first time, as it was equally terrifying - you had written about songs, about records - long plays and extended plays and demos and what have you. You had written about bands and news and yes, concerts, but not like this. This was a huge step for you and even the mere thought of fucking up made your toes curl with anxiety. Rationally, you knew first times weren’t usually nice, much less perfect, still, your mind was overflowing with second thoughts._

_At least, first times were memorable._

_“I’m sorry. It’s just that… Are you sure this is gonna work? Do they even know I’m…” In the middle of your questioning, Tony reached over you and abruptly opened the passenger seat door. “Hey!”_

_“Kid, if you don’t get out of this car right now…”_

_One look at your boss’ exasperated face and you were already putting your legs out of his muscle car with an impatient grunt. “Fine.”_

_Tony Stark was many things. World famous rock critic, Creem Magazine's editor-in-chief, your mentor and friend (although he wouldn't be caught dead calling you that) - but he was not very lenient, or very patient._

_He did have time for one last advice as you slammed the door on your way out._

_"Stay at the door. It's where the magic happens."_

“Magic, my ass.”

Mumbling under your breath, it was all you could think of while you stood beneath the bright, neon white, sign of The Whisky, that said in bold lettering: Star Lord and the Guardians of the Galaxy. A group that began in Nowhere, Missouri and is now one of the biggest psychedelic rock bands in the world, with people coming from all across the state to watch them play with sold out tickets. Who wouldn’t want to watch an experimental act with an eccentric frontman, a bassist covered in green body paint and a guitarist with raccoon makeup? A must see.

They were also the band you were supposed to interview that night. 

Then, you were standing out of the growing line of people in front of the dark red wall of the building, with your arms crossed and a face that said “don’t talk to me right now”. A line of people who just saw you get turned down by the bouncer and told to “wait in line like the other girls” and, much to your pride’s chagrin, you had to leave, slightly humiliated and desperately thinking of a way out. If your credentials didn’t work, and neither did your casual name dropping of Tony Stark, nothing else would.

There was no way out, no Plan B, no nothing. Without your name on the list, you weren’t getting backstage. You didn’t even have a normal ticket for the concert because Tony assured you that the crew would have your name and you’d be allowed in with no trouble - the man was your boss, but, oh, you and him were going to have a few words on Monday.

“Hey!” 

You were brought out of your own thoughts by the sound of someone calling you. An auburn haired girl in a red mini dress with flowing sleeves and waving an unlit cigarette between her lithe fingers at you, nails painted a deep cherry red. “Do you have a lighter? I think I lost mine.”

It took you a moment to react, reaching for your purse and nodding, handing the girl your small silver zippo. 

“Thanks, love.”

Contemplating what to say, you reached inside your purse once more to fish out your own cigarette while she lighted hers. Then, before handing it back to you, she got closer - much closer than necessary - and lighted yours too.

"So, who are you with?"

The answer came a little harsher than you planned. Blame it on your nerves. “I’m with myself.”

She chuckled. "No, silly. Who are you with... What band?"

"Oh."

Here's the thing.

You’ve been in and out of Sunset Boulevard ever since you were a young teenager, sneaking out of your mother’s house and meeting your friends to spend the night standing on the sidewalk outside of the Whisky, or the Rainbow, or the Troubadour - wherever the best show of the weekend was happening - drinking way more than you could handle and trying to listen to the loud, powerful music playing inside of the venues, imagining what was like to actually be in there - way before you were old enough to be allowed in. It was a liberating experience, for the most time, and it was where your love for music grew and grew until it didn't fit inside your chest anymore, and it began to spill in the form of words on paper.

In that meantime, you’ve met your fair share of all kinds of people - but you’ve always been intimidated by the groupies. Beautiful, scantily clad girls covered in glitter and sequin, the real heart and soul of the party, the 20th century Muses. You never knew how to act when you’d run into one of them, their liveliness and easy going nature made you slightly nervous.

Pretty girls made you nervous in general.

"I'm a journalist, actually. Not a… you know." 

A defying look crossed the girl’s green eyes, as if she was daring you to say the wrong thing. You swallowed hard, and continued.

“Don’t mind me. It’s just that… I was supposed to have a gig tonight, but I fooled around and it all went wrong and now I should be going home but I also didn’t want to give up like this.” The reason why you were venting to a complete stranger was totally lost on you, as was yourself to the world. As you take a long drag, letting the smoke burn your insides to distract you from the turmoil in your mind, the girl’s semblance softens.

“I’m sorry, hun. What kind of gig was it?” She questions. You figured she was just trying to be nice - not a lot of people would in her place. Sunset Boulevard was filled with assholes, you knew that much.

“An interview. With Guardians.” You watched as she nodded, tilting her head, long orange hair glowing in the neon light. “It’s okay, though. Whatever. There’s always a next time.”

You were fully aware you were of how pathetic you were sounding. Changing that wouldn’t change anything, though.

Shrugging, you drop your half-finished cigarette to the ground, stepping on it a little harder than necessary. The admission brought a lump to your throat, your eyes filled with unshed tears, one you refused to release until you were home, laying on your couch and opening whatever cheap alcohol you or your roommate had. A whole ass pity party. Your head pointed forward, not wanting what you think would be the pity in new acquaintance eyes. Instead, you feel a hand on your shoulder, a light squeeze from a small hand adorned with rows of golden rings.

“I think I have some friends that can help you.”

“What?” 

“Trust me. Just wait here, darling. I’ll be right back.”

There was a part of you that didn’t believe in luck. That night, you didn’t listen to it.

It was sheer, dumb luck that brought Scarlet - as the girl who saved you outside of the Whisky introduced herself as - into your life. Turned out, her boyfriend, Vision, was a roadie for The Howling Commandos, the opening act. Side note, you were sure none of those were their birth names, but that’s just showbiz. They introduced you to Scott Lang, the band’s manager and friend, who was eager to promise you an interview after the show was over.

If it sounded too good to be true, it’s because it was. From the bright green backstage pass glued to the top of your dress to the fact that you ended up swiftly conducting an interview sitting comfortably on a leather couch at a small party at the Riot House. The Continental Hyatt House, that is - all thanks to Scott and The Howlies.

The opening band for the night and just starting their second national tour, The Howling Commandos were a band from New York, and hugely popular all over the East Coast, but still gaining traction in the West. Their solid, hard rock sound was equal times heavy and grounded, like any good rock band should be, in your opinion - though you couldn’t say you were a fan (you didn’t know them enough to call yourself one), you could clearly tell they had something special. On the brink of greatness, but not quite there yet.

They were approachable, salt of the earth. Endearing, almost, as much as the average rockstar could be. Sam Wilson, bassist and professional charmes, certainly was. Out of the four men, he was the most outgoing, and the easiest to talk to, which made your job easier in turn. It also didn’t hurt that he was willing to share a joint with you.

You were beginning to find out being a rock journalist had its perks.

“Anyway, my point is, everything is an excuse for a party.” He concluded, laughing, after going on about answering your question - one which you couldn’t remember what it was. “What I mean is that, the best thing about being on the road is freedom, man. There’s literally no one to order us around. Except for Scott, but we don’t really have to listen to him.”

“I heard that!” Scott called out from the other side of the room. “It’s true, but it still hurts!”

His remark makes you laugh - the manager and Sam started to go on back and forth about something you stopped listening to at some point. You were feeling way more lighthearted then, nothing like the girl that was so close to breaking down earlier, and you’re not sure if it’s the smoke or the people surrounding you that made you feel that way. Everyone around was so at ease with each other, it made you relax too. The Howlies had a close-knit circle of crew and friends, you could tell - something the bigger bands didn’t. The bigger your act gets, the more fake, opportunistic people you have around you.

In your daze, you focus on the brown-haired man across the room. Unlike the rest of the band, you hadn’t heard a word from James Barnes ever since they got here - you saw him occupy himself with tuning his guitar by himself in his own corner of the band’s designated dressing room before the show, and drinking his whiskey by himself at the party afterward - all you would hear from him were the occasional smooth sound of the instrument in his hands. You wondered if there was something bothering him or if he was always like that - you hoped not, he was much too handsome to be frowning all the time. Distracted by your thoughts, you didn’t realize he was, then, looking at you - icy blue eyes meet your eyes in a wary gaze, and you could feel yourself grow hot in the face.

Looking away as if you didn’t get caught staring, you notice the two men beside you were still going on their silly, drunken tangent. While you were too busy trying to pretend you were paying attention, blinking a little too much for someone who’s supposed to be working, you didn’t notice the man pulling a chair and sitting right in front of the couch you and Sam were sitting on. When the bassist acknowledged his presence saying “Hey, man. Thought you were gonna stay there all night”, it’s too late.

James was sitting right there, with a knowing smirk on his face, like he knew all of your secrets. _“Fuck”_ was the first word that came to mind, but, luckily, didn’t slip through your lips.

“I wanted to see what all this fuss was about.” He said, looking from Sam to you with a tilt of his head.

“Our journalist friend here was just asking me what I thought rock and roll was all about, but I think I got too carried away with it.”

“What about you? What does rock and roll mean to you?”

He was there and he was willing, maybe you could get a word or two out of him. Something inside you was thrilled to get the silent, byronic-looking James Barnes to say a few words and break character - at least, you hoped. No one could be like that all the time. Maybe that was your scoop, “hot and mysterious guitarist is, actually, just a boring guy”.

“Oh, I don’t know, our journalist friend. I’m not very good with words.” Now, it was not the sarcasm in his voice when he imitates the way Sam called you that surprised you - it’s the lack of a real response. You were expecting that the sulking guitarist type like him would have some long pretentious answer or a witty one-liner to give, but, instead, you got nothing. 

“Then what are you good at, James?” You insisted. You heard Sam scoff beside you but kept looking at James, who raises an eyebrow and it looked like he was about to say something when leaned forward, arms propped on his thighs, wolfish smile on his face.

“Call me Bucky, sweetheart. Only my ma calls me James.”

An eyebrow was raised. “I’ll call you Bucky if you don’t call me sweetheart again.” You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Professionalism was the one thing keeping you from telling him go fuck himself. The great mystic surrounding rockstars was that, on stage, they were larger than life, treated like gods - outside of it, they were just men, and men were, usually, disappointing. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I will.”

A lot of things happened that night, but James “call me Bucky” Barnes didn’t answer your question, and he never would, now that they were out of the state and on to the next city. Part of you was relieved to not have to talk to him again, but another was still curious about what lied underneath the surface.

You were immensely thankful for the Howlies, though, for being so welcoming and not sending you home empty-handed. In the end, your first interview was featured into that month’s issue of Creem Magazine - you later found out it was The Howling Commandos first official interview published in California.

A week after the magazine started circulating, you were woken on a Saturday by the loud ring of the phone in your apartment. You groaned out loud when you remembered your roommate was sleeping at her girlfriend’s, making you the caller’s only option. Throwing the covers to the side, you lazed all the way into the living room, dragging your feet through the carpet.

“Hello?” You answered, trying to sound like you weren’t dying.

“Y/N Y/L/N?” A masculine voice called on the other side.

“This is she.”

“Y/N, this is Nicholas Fury. I’m the music editor at Rolling Stone magazine. We got a couple copies of your stories from the San Diego Door. Is this the same Y/N Y/L/N?” 

While you weren’t feeling so good, your hearing was just fine, but you couldn’t believe that was exactly what you were listening to - how did Rolling Stone get your number? How did they get a hand on your articles? - but you wouldn’t bother the man on the other side of the line with all these questions, instead just answering with a “Yes, it is.”

“‘Voice of God, howling dogs, the spirit of rock and roll…’ This is good solid stuff, girl.” Nicholas continued. You could hear the rustling of paper, imagining he was reading through your stuff. Someone inside Rolling Stone was reading your words, and praising them. 

Holy shit.

“Oh, thanks! Thanks…”

In your defence, you weren’t always that monosyllabic. However, it was not everyday a representative of the biggest name in music journalism of the country called you out of the blue.

“Listen… I think you should be writing for us, any ideas?” 

Barely containing her excitement, you smiled wide, forgetting the sleepiness that lingered and was making you miserable just a few moments ago. Rapidly going through her notes on the surface beside the phone, you suggested. “How about The Howling Commandos?”

“The Howling Commandos?” Nicholas repeated. “Hard working band… New album out, their second. Starting to do something.” Then he paused, as if considering something. “Let’s do 3000 words, how does that sound? We’ll join the band on the road. Don’t let the band pay for anything! We can only pay… let see, 3000 words? 700 dollars.”

That made you gasp silently, covering your open mouth with the hand that wasn’t holding the phone to your ear. You had never made that much money on an article before, this was totally new. Upon your silence, Nicholas then said “All right, a grand” and you almost dropped the phone in shock.

“What’s your background? Are you a journalism major?” He inquired - to which you promptly answered, finding your words again. “Yeah… UC San Diego.” 

While you discussed the details and the dates and all the bureaucracy involved in your little trip, you could feel a prickle of excitement crawl up your whole body, hands shaking and heart pumping loudly. You couldn’t wait to tell Tony.

He’d call you a traitor, but you knew how proud he would be.

Life on the road didn’t look easy from the outside. The people in it were not easy, either - you weren't gonna let that intimidate you, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> exactly a year after the first version of this story was posted, it returns.
> 
> i decided not to give up on it, because this story means a lot to me, it's my baby and i hope you enjoy this as much as i do. thank you for reading! reviews and feedback are always welcome 💕


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